


Bones and Joints

by harpybones



Series: Everlast [3]
Category: Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Early Cybertron Civil War, Everlast AU, M/M, Mentioned Assassination, Pre-War Cybertron, Prowl and Bluestreak are Related, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unrequited Love, mentioned genocide
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:14:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,009
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24411892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harpybones/pseuds/harpybones
Summary: Grief, in itself, was an emotion that brought out a side in someone that most would rather keep hidden… at least that’s how Jazz put it. Music was a cure-all tonic, and that had always been important to Jazz- an escape from the hard material truths. For a time, the rather abysmal life he had to live within the destitute ends of Polyhex was what left him afflicted; but now, the grief of war, death, and the dreaded horrors that now scourged Cybertron was what mercilessly vexed him so. Yet, Jazz still held his music close.So in Prowl’s time of need, Jazz did everything in his power to help the one mech he considered more than just a friend, even if Prowl did not see him that way. From Polyhex, to Praxus, and to the battlefield, Jazz knew that Prowl was a unique song, the most saccharine and charming music he will ever hear; the last thing Jazz wanted was for their lives to fall silent.Rated for the subject matter.( "&" is for Non-Romantic Relationships)(Everlast AU)
Relationships: Blaster & Jazz, Bluestreak & Prowl, Bluestreak & Prowl & Smokescreen, Jazz & Prowl, Jazz/Prowl
Series: Everlast [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1656406
Comments: 2
Kudos: 19





	Bones and Joints

**Author's Note:**

> Since this has little to nothing to do with any continuity, feel free to read the notes section on the series page. It covers a lot of what will be mentioned or at least alluded to in these stories.
> 
> Name Key:
> 
> Heatblaster - Blaster  
> No one calls him Heatblaster except for Firecracker, everyone calls him Blaster.
> 
> Jazzmeister - Jazz  
> Referred to as Meister, only close friends call him Jazz.
> 
> Nightprowler - Prowl  
> Referred to as Prowl only by close friends.

_Desolate. Agonizing desolation and morose. He was suffering through torrential anguish; a forlorn rainstorm plummeting his spark into dejection. He sat slouched over his desk, his wings hung low and loose from his body, with his face buried in a datapad- one of the hundreds he plans to scrutinize for the remainder of the night. He will not sleep, not that he can’t, he just won’t. Instead, with dim optics, he’ll lie awake and stare at the bunker’s ceiling until sunrise. It’ll repeat for days and days..._

Melancholia.

It didn’t suit him. A powerful Praxian Hunter should stand proud yet humble, not locked away for hours on end and suffering alone. That refined face of his should be stoic, not sullen. Each passing cycle, others pressed on with gathered strength by their losses, and yet he has fallen into dismal blight that just won’t go away. It wasn’t right. It just wasn’t _fair_.

For days now, Prowl has been left somber. His normally orderly office was in disarray- just like himself, it seemed. Datapads covered his desk, files and folders scattered the floor. He drowned himself with labor and tried to hide from the misery plaguing him but it just wasn’t working. 

Jazz couldn’t stand it.

Although he only knew Prowl for about three or four _stellar cycles_ , Jazz considered Prowl a friend. He knew Prowl did not hold the same for him, but that was alright. He didn’t have to. Jazz would be there for him regardless. 

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

Several stellars before, Jazz had travelled to the state of Praxus to attend a highly anticipated concert being held within Praxus’ Concert Hall, with his long-time friend Heatblaster tagging along for the journey. The two had come from their homestate of Polyhex to see their favorite bands perform; excitement swelled for the duration of the trip, and continued to grow even when they were standing right there in the crowd. But Jazz’s optics travelled around the Hall, and his attention was grabbed by something different. Standing far at the back of the hall were several Enforcers, clad in their shiny black-and-white armor, each one spread apart with rifles strapped over their shoulders as they guarded the entrances and exits. But Jazz’s optics focused on one in particular, a mech who stood out among them. He wasn’t exceptionally bigger than the others- in fact, his stature was rather small and his frame was thin; however, this Enforcer’s shoulder guards and chest plates were decorated with various symbols showing his prominence amidst the others. Despite Blaster’s protests to stay with him and wait for the concert to start, Jazz weaved through the crowd and made his way to the main entrance. He wasn’t quite sure what drove him to at the time, but he just _had_ to talk to this Enforcer. 

Jazz had extended his hand to him, _“Evenin’ officer!_ _Whatcha doin’ all the way o’er here? Show’s up there.”_

A gold visor covered the chief Enforcer’s optics, but Jazz could sense his confusion. His demeanor wasn’t that of anger or annoyance, just a bit of skepticism and hesitation. 

_“Because of the recent attacks in the surrounding provinces, the city is under high security.”_ The chief Enforcer had explained, shaking his hand. _“A gathering as congested as this is at risk of being targeted. We are simply doing our duty to protect tonight’s visitors.”_

Jazz couldn’t hold in a grin. The Enforcer was well composed, and his voice was very… calming. Pleasant. His warm tone had reminded Jazz of _halcyon_. Though it wasn’t the most popular music genre on Cybertron, Jazz admitted to having a fondness of it. Halcyon was a way to unwind, relax, and settle into unperturbed repose. It was nice to listen to… just like this Enforcer. He was nice to listen to. 

Then, without forethought, Jazz retracted his hand and had asked, _“Wha’s yer name?”_

Only seconds later did Jazz realize what he had just asked, and regret began to set in. He just asked a high-ranking officer for his _name!_ One doesn’t just-

_“My… full designation is Nightprowler.”_

Oh. Jazz didn’t expect _that_ answer. But he noticed that he had gotten this far, and now, Jazz was feeling rather daring tonight. He crossed his arms across his chestplates and pushed a little harder, _“And wha's every other mech call ya?”_

_“...Prowl.”_

_Prowl._ Rolled right of the tongue. Jazz realized a smile persisted on his face, but he didn’t care to hide it at this point.

_“Awesome, mine’s Jazzmeister, but mos’ mecha jus’ call me Meister.”_

The Enforcer’s expression didn’t falter, or change at all, but Jazz couldn’t detect any unwelcome energy.

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

Between shifts, Jazz attempted to approach Prowl whenever he had the chance. Cheerfully he’d greet the Praxian, or engage in a bit of small talk. Prowl would respond, but with a nod or short one-word answers, if he could. Prowl was a quiet mech, Jazz knew that, but this was different. Prowl enjoyed conversation like any other mech did- when he wasn’t focused on something else, of course. Never did he seem so reluctant to talk before. 

Jazz leaned against the farthest wall, tense and far from lax, and stared down at the glass of energon he held in his hand. He rotated his wrist, and watched as the bright liquid swished around within the cup.

The Rec Room was noisy, but that wasn’t unusual. Normally Jazz would be contributing to that noise, but his mind was occupied at the moment. Prowl has been locking himself in his office for hours on end, only occasionally leaving for a short refuel session, then returning back to where he started by his day- that dark cave he hardly emerges from. He's been doing this often, and Jazz was a little more than bothered.

If someone were to call him out, for a meeting or an assignment, Prowl would certainly comply- but he'd do so with an empty expression, responding with a monotone "yes, sir," "no, sir," or "at once, sir," then dismiss himself quietly. Jazz was sure he wasn't the only one noticing Prowl's behavior, he couldn't be. Even though Jazz is the head of Special Operations, and it's part of his job to have a keen eye, there are aspects of this situation that are far too obvious, a mech would have to be a total idiot not to notice it. 

Like the first sign brought to Jazz's attention, Prowl's sudden change in demeanor. His tone, his expressions, his body language- all his energy, vanished. Now, his coating color was growing duller than a blunted knife. His normally striking contrast of black and white on his armor was faded, his formerly lustrous gold detailing fell dim, and the bright scarlet crest atop his helm seemed so dark… almost like Prowl was being drained by a Sparkeater. Other mecha had to notice, too.

Prowl was dying, slowly, and suffering until the inevitable end.

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

From the crowd, Jazz heard Blaster yelling for him, faintly, but he ignored it. Of course, when the concert was over, Jazz knew he wasn’t going to hear the end of it. An angry Blaster tended to hold rancor, but for the moment, he couldn’t find a reason to worry about that. 

_“I hope you enjoy your evening, Jazzmeister.”_

Jazz was sure that was an attempt to make him leave, but _ohhh_ , that voice and graciously couth behavior only made it so harder to do so. 

_“Ya can jus’ call me Jazz.”_

Prowl’s field then became slightly ambivalent and confused. Jazz, however, remained unwavering, still grinning like a fool at the perplexed Enforcer. Prowl lifted his head, as if looking over Jazz’s shoulder. The Polyhexan himself noticed this, and quickly turned to see what caught his attention.

Blaster. His fuming companion, envy written all over him, was swearing to the top of his cybernetic lungs for Jazz- and clearly, as most obnoxiously as he could, because he was certainly turning heads.

_“Getcha big aft back o’er here now!”_

_“Why do ya always do this t’ me!?”_

_“C’mon, dude! We don’ got all night!”_

_“Stop harassing that damn cop, Meister!”_

_“Dude, Sagoretronixa's about t’ play!”_

_“You afthead, c’mon!”_

_“Seriously Meister, what tha Pit‘re ya doing, mech?”_

It was almost humorous. Except that Blaster was essentially embarrassing him in front of this Enforcer... but Jazz couldn’t bring himself to be _too_ mad at him. After all, they did make plans to spend time together here. Jazz admitted to himself that _he_ was the one being an aft here, not Blaster.

_“Your friend seems insistent that you return.”_

Jazz turned back around to Prowl, who has now focussed on him again. _“Yeah, he is. I did promise to hang tonight…”_

_“Go spend time with him, Jazzmeister. The purpose of this event is to enjoy yourselves, not to casually conversate with the officers guarding it, although your company wasn’t… too much of a bother.”_ A small, yet noticeable smile appeared upon the Enforcer’s face, and Jazz became ecstatic.

_“Yeah, you’re right.”_ With fain, Jazz turned around and began walking to where Blaster continued to holler, and shouted back, _“I’ll see ya ‘round, Prowler!”_

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

"Ay, Meist’, wanna grab summore drinks?"

Jazz glanced from the glass in his hands to Blaster. The bright orange mech was clearly overcharged; his sloppy grin, wobbly stance, shaky EM field and the strong scent of highgrade waving off of him gave that away. Someone certainly needed to head back to their quarters.

"Nah mech, I think ya've had enough for one night."

Blaster pouted, "But _Jazzy_ ," he whined, and gripped Jazz's wrist. He attempted to lead him towards the Rec Room's bar, but Jazz wouldn't budge from the wall. " _C'mon_!"

The taller mech was slightly annoyed, yet still, Jazz laughed and pulled his arm from Blaster's grip. "’S lookin’ like if ya drink any more, you'll die, mech. An' 'Hide said I'm on cleanup duty after this, I don't wanna be moppin' you up from th' floor, Blaster."

Jazz's irritation escaped Blaster's notice, and the sun-colored mech continued, "Nah, mech! I ain't gon' _die!_ C'mon, sweetspark, le's go _drink!_ "

" _Heatblaster._ " Jazz strained the other's full designation with a tone of urgency. He roughly held Blaster's hand, and pushed him to move towards the quartering hall. "I'm being serious, ya need t'go lay down."

Reluctantly, Blaster pulled back from Jazz, his former grin contorting into a frown, and wobbled away from him. Jazz moved to help his friend, and ensure that Blaster actually _made it_ to his room, but Bumblebee rushed over to him before Jazz could. The smaller mech placed his hand on Blaster's back to steady him, and politely asked the mech for the location of his room as he guided Blaster down the hall.

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

Like a seismic quaking beneath Cybertron’s surface, the floors of the Concert Hall shook with vigor below the crowd’s feet. Deafening screams erupted, echoing through the building, and mindlessly mecha began to cluster towards the center of the room. Through the chaos, Jazz did his best to spot Blaster within the horde of hysteric mecha. He shouted, pushed, and shoved through them, desperately hunting for bright sun-orange plating, but he was soon at a loss. It was absolute pandemonium in there. Jazz then turned back to face the exits, where the Enforcers- Prowl standing behind- hurriedly exited the building. A few Enforcers stood behind and ran for the windows, smashing them open. The black-and-white mecha crouched beneath them and aimed their holo-rifles through the busted glass, waiting. Seeing the Enforcers ready their weapons brought a mixture of emotions from the crowd, either somewhat comforted by the protection or increasingly maniacal from them even having to _ready_ weapons in the first place.

Prowl had his index finger up to his audials, speaking to someone over a Comm. Link. After a few minutes, his frame became tense and still. Although his optics were visored, Jazz could notice rising anger through the growing scowl on his face. Prowl’s hand eventually fell back to his side, but not for long. He grabbed the strap of his holo-rifle and slipped it from off of his shoulders. Prowl wrapped his fingers around the rifle’s grip and held it steady with his other hand clutched around the guard. 

_“Stay here.”_ Prowl addressed the mass. _“The Concert Hall is the safest building you could be in, and we will ensure that you remain unharmed.”_ He lifted his hand and placed it over the center of his chest- a Praxian salute- and concluded, _“Praxus Prevails.”_

Turning, Prowl sprinted through the exits, and Jazz felt something flip inside him. He couldn’t stay here. He had to go. _He had to go!_

Briskly Jazz pushed through the horde once again, refusing to acknowledge the fearful shrieks surrounding him as he made for the doors. He forced them open, his audials first met with rapid gunfire, then his optics faced central Praxus- or what once was. The great city was now facing destruction, thrown into a bloody warzone; into havoc and upheaval. Buildings lay collapsed wasted, smoke rising from the fires below; stricken by flaming projectiles. Bodies, cold and gray, lay still upon the ground. Their names were unknown to Jazz, but nonetheless, they didn’t deserve a fate like this. 

Jazz quickly moved away from the open, hunting for large debris to crouch behind. Not too far from where he stood, a large tower had collapsed, and Jazz wasted no time moving towards it.

_“Meister!”_

Jazz settled behind the fallen tower, and circled around to find Blaster running towards him, fear plastered onto his face. Crouching, the orange-plated mech slid to a stop, and slumped next to Jazz. Exhausted from both terror and worry, Blaster heaved, and used a bit of his remaining strength to grip onto Jazz’s arm and berate him.

_“Jazzmeister,"_ he wheezed, _"Wha… what tha_ **_Pit_ ** _were ya thinkin’!? Huh!? Runnin’ out here... like that!? We were told t’ stay inside! What-!”_

_“Grab them rifles, Blaster.”_

A few feet from his right, Blaster noticed the fallen bodies of two Enforcers with their holo-rifles laying beside them. The guns appeared to still be functional, as there was no obvious damage, at least not externally. Blaster quietly crawled over, attempting to avoid attention from any nearby mecha, and slid the rifles back to Jazz before returning to his companion. Blaster held the rifle in his hands, examining it for a moment.

_“We’re really gonna do this?”_ Blaster studied the gun, and seemed almost defeated. It wasn’t really a question. He knew the answer.

Jazz turned to the orange-plated mech and replied, _“Do ya have any other ideas?”_

_“How’re we gonna get back t’ Polyhex-?”_

An explosion that was far-too-close for comfort boomed, shaking the ground, and Jazz hurriedly responded, _“That’s the last thing we need t’ worry ‘bout.”_

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

Across from the Quartering Hall, on the opposite side of the Rec Room, there was the Variegate. This hall served as the Autobots' center of operation, for the most part. Jazz's office- the _"SpecOps HQ_ " as he called it, was situated there; the officer's Meeting Room was also in the Variegate, as was the Communications Room, and Red Alert's cave- the Security Room.

Prowl's office was there, too.

There were a few papers that Jazz still had to sign before he turned in for the night. For a moment, the Saboteur considered stopping by Prowl's office when he left for his own. Prowl was a mech who loved his work, and Jazz knew that a random drop-in would certainly upset him- and should he continue to do it, it may even spark animosity towards Jazz- but it was a small price to pay. Jazz reasoned with that.

All he wanted was some peace of mind. 

*

Maybe he was being far too paranoid- that was Red Alert’s job, not Jazz’s- but the Saboteur couldn't help it. He’d been standing in front of Prowl's office door for almost two minutes. His index finger hovered over the " _request entrance_ " button, and despite the mental commands to do so, did not move. _Frag._

What had happened, Jazz then thought, that made everything involving this Praxian so difficult?

The Polyhexan fought vigorously with his mind, finally pressuring his quivering hand to move forward and pushed the button. After a few moments, a familiar voice spoke over the office's receiver.

"Who is it and what do you need?" A sigh. Prowl's tone was that of ragged annoyance.

“Uh, it’s Jazz, Prowler. Jus’ wanted t-”

“If you were not aware, I am rather busy at the moment.” Prowl stressed, “If it is important, get to the point.”

Even over the receiver static, Jazz could detect fatigue in the Praxian’s voice, concerning him a bit more. “How long have ya been in there, m’mech?”

“Hardly your concern.” Prowl responded promptly, “ _What is it_ , Jazzmeister? I am not in the mood to be bothered for no apparent reason-”

“Can I come in?”

_...Frag._

Jazz recoiled, cringing, and mentally crawled into himself. Prowl’s end of the com was silent. Jazz slapped his hand onto his forehelm, and cursed. _Did you really have to be so direct, you stupid fragger?_

But after a few moments, Prowl calmly answered, if not a bit reluctant, “Is this necessary for your reason of disruption?”

“Um,” The Polyhexan paused. “Uh, yeah. It is.”

Prowl sighed. From behind the door, Jazz heard beeps as a few buttons were pushed. The office door slid open, and Jazz stepped forward. 

“Whatever it is, make it quick.”

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

Kaonite Rebels. That is what they called themselves, but “rebel” was far too light of a term for them. Kaonite _Anarchists_ had a sound that seemed much more fitting. Their tactics were ruthless and they ensured that you knew; whether it was leaving brutalized bodies piked or hanging outside of major cities, setting off bombs inside of populated spaces, attempted assassinations on important figures, explicit vandalization of historical property, and now, destroying entire cities. Until that moment, Jazz didn’t even know they had that much firepower and support to pull something like this off. _How naive._

Kicking dust up with every step, Jazz and Blaster moved apace through the growing ruins of Praxus. Grayed bodies of both civilians and soldiers littered the ground, and Jazz felt his insides turn. It wasn’t as if he hadn’t seen dead bodies before. Jazz was brought up in the most destitute ends of Polyhex, _he’s seen people drop dead across the street!_ But never has he seen the dead in such large numbers, all stacked up in one place. He’s heard others say that Polyhex was a warzone, and there was a point in time where Jazz truly believed that. Not anymore. No, Polyhex was nothing like this.

He’d rather spend his days in Polyhex than in the middle of _this._

Soon the two stumbled upon a team of Praxian Enforcers gunning down a horde of Rebels, and Jazz quickly recognized the chief mech as Prowl. The squad was shielded behind a collapsed building as the Rebels repeatedly fired towards their large barrier with heavy blows as an attempt to weaken the blockade. In tune, Prowl gave swift orders through his Comm. Link for artillerymecha to concentrate their fire on grouped Rebels, and for snipers to focus on heavy-arms and tankmecha, to which his subordinates immediately obeyed. They fought with congruence and unity; their movements flowing in sync with one another, yet holding their own individuality. It was a unique balance of authority and consonance that Jazz had never seen before, almost harmonious. It _was_ harmonious, _like swaying to the melodic rhythm of a euphony._

Jazz wouldn’t be able to watch for very long, however. Once the immediate danger was gone, it didn’t take long for Prowl to notice their presence. His stern lips quickly morphed into a scowl as he approached them, wielding his holo-rifle in his hands. Concerned, Blaster glanced to Jazz, and waited for some kind of response. But Jazz simply patted Blaster’s shoulder guards and focused on the chafed Enforcer drawing near.

With his voice low in tone and ragged with fatigue, Prowl made himself appear rather imposing. _“What are the two of you doing here?”_ He demanded, _“You were given orders to stay inside. What foolish idea caused you to leave?”_

_“Came t’ help ya out.”_ Jazz replied with a grin. Blaster rolled his optics. 

With visored optics, Prowl appeared to glance between the two. _“You cannot. Neither of you have any military training.”_ He glanced down at the rifles in their hands. _“You lack the knowledge to use our equipment effectively, or to take and give orders properly.”_

_“An awfully broad assumption,”_ Jazz responded, _“But I see whatcha mean. Though I think we’ve been workin’ these rifles alright. We’re still ‘n one piece, so’re tha guns, an’ best of all,”_ Jazz cocked the rifle, _“Tons’a Kaonite baddies ‘re face first in tha dirt.”_

Prowl seemed stunned for a few seconds. _“Those are military-assigned weapons, distributed only to soldiers who have passed a performance test.”_ He assured, and Jazz nodded. _“Yet, you appear to know how to use them. Unless you have illegally obtained these weapons before, how could that be possible?”_

Blaster stiffened, but Jazz was undeterred. _“Ya can only imagine what yer able t’ get yer hands on in Polyhex. Heh, slag’s crazy.”_ Jazz laughed. Prowl thought for a second, but didn’t press further. For the moment.

_“Very well.”_ Prowl turned on his heel and rejoined his squad. _“We do not have time to brood on it. Come with me. We are pushing northward."_

Northern Praxus served as neighborhood housing for the Enforcers and their family units. Many of the families had already evacuated the city; those that weren’t as fortunate ended up being left behind, either smashed into the ground by the falling towers, killed by the Rebels, or- if they were lucky- hiding underneath the city’s rubble and debris. Although he ordered his team to search for survivors, Prowl himself admitted to only having one particular mech in mind there. Jazz and Blaster followed the chief Enforcer through the leveled city, staring in awe at just how much destruction the Rebels had caused. Prowl soon separated from his team, leaving them to scan for living mecha while he embarked on his own search. The two Polyhexans followed in tow. 

_“Stay vigilant,”_ Prowl had advised, _“And proceed with utmost caution.”_

The chief Enforcer had led them deep into the division, up to a partially collapsed housing unit. It appeared as if a missile had shot straight through it; the bottom level was utterly destroyed, leaving the remaining top level with a sharp lean to the right. At the foot of the home, a few Kaonite bodies laid graying with scorching holes burnt into their helms, certainly from the laser fire of a Sniper’s holorifle. Wary, Prowl directed Jazz and Blaster to stay behind, then slowly approached the building. He cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted a name Jazz did not recognize at the time: _Bluestreak._

_“Bluestreak!”_ Prowl had shouted, then twice more, “ _Bluestreak! Bluestreak!”_

But who was Bluestreak, Jazz had wondered, and what was this mech to Prowl? Jazz found this sudden burst of curiosity rather amusing. He didn’t know anything about Prowl, other than what was right in front of him- a Chief Enforcer of the Praxian Defense Unit. Why would he want to know any more than that? Why did he care so much about some mech he’ll _never_ see again after this? 

Jazz jerked around to Blaster, who tapped his shoulder, and nudged towards the fallen building. Prowl, with those sharp claws Praxian Hunters were known for, was quickly climbing up the damaged outer walls of the building towards an open busted window, skittering with speed like that of a stalking Sparkeater.

_“Bluestreak?”_ He called again- a bit lighter than before- and this time, there was an answer.

_“...Prowly?”_

The response was soft and high pitched- that of a youngling, for sure. Soon the small frame of a tiny Praxian Hunter with a satchel around his shoulder, and a sniper-holorifle in his hands, moved from the room’s darkness towards the shattered window. The youngling shared a very clear resemblance to Prowl; he bared a scarlet crest on his head, just like Prowl, but instead of the Enforcer black-and-white coating, Bluestreak was darker; his armor was coated with grays, reds, and black. The exception to this pattern was the odd and stark bright-blue line that prominently ran down his bottom lip, chin, and the center of his black chestplates. Hence his name, Jazz supposed.

Prowl quickly pulled the younger into a tight embrace, and attempted to climb back down with him, but Bluestreak quickly protested, and tried to pull the two of them back into the building.

_“W- Wait- Wait, Prowl!”_ The youngling stuttered, _“T- There’s someone else in there- Smokescreen-!”_

Yet another young Praxian Hunter, this one a lighter-blue and yellow-crested, hurried towards the window and extended his hands to Prowl. The Enforcer did not hesitate to scoop him up into his arms, and with incredible balance, Prowl slid down the collapsing side of the home holding the younglings close to his chestplates. His weight, however, brought the damaged building tumbling down for good, so the second Prowl’s feet touched the ground, he pushed into a sprint, and darted from the growing cloud of dust. 

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

Quietly Jazz entered the darkened office. Prowl pressed the retract button, closed the door, and turned his attention back to the plethora of datapads on his desk. Silence. He awaited a directive, a request, or something of that sort, Jazz assumed. But Jazz didn’t have one, not officially. Awkwardly, Jazz shuffled his feet. What was he to say?

The Praxian did not seem to be paying him any mind at all, ignoring him instead for his datapads. Prowl adjusted the lighting levels on his desk lamp, but did not say a word to the Polyhexan. Jazz took this opportunity to look around Prowl’s office. Jazz had only entered twice, both of which were very short occasions, so he never really had a chance to see Prowl’s choice in decoration.

Which seemed to be rather… moderate.

Even though the lighting was dim, Jazz could make out several frames with photo-captured images within them displayed on the walls. One, he noticed, featured young Prowl and even younger Bluestreak held within his arms, the younger appearing as if he had just emerged from the spawnpod. Jazz chuckled.

“Y’know, it took me quite some time t’ realize Bluestreak wasn’ your sparklin’.”

Slowly Prowl raised his head from the datapads. The Praxian’s expression read as bemused, and opened his mouth as if to say something rather crass. Instead, he cocked a brow and replied, “How did you not know he was my sibling?” He swivelled around in his chair to face the Polyhexan, and gestured to the symbols and glyphs on his collar plating, “Jazzmeister, I still bear my escutcheon insignia, and the shielding on my anipneuma. I’ve never spark-bonded before.”

“Well, for one, I wasn’t- an’ still ain’t- exactly familiar with the complex system Praxians have when bonding.” Jazz retorted, “An’ two, the way you interacted with Blue seemed more like a creator-creation relationship, rather than a sibling one.”

Perplexion stagnated on the Praxian’s face. “I am not sure I understand. Affection within Praxian family units is equal among all members within it. Is this not the same for Polyhex?”

“I mean,” Jazz fought to find the right words, “Yeah, we all love our families, but siblin’s, heh, we fight more than we hug. ‘S jus’ how we are. I would know, I had eleven.” 

Prowl responded with a small hum, then swivelled back around to his desk. Jazz refused to give up his attention, however, and continued.

“Heh, yeah, my Carrier loved sparklin’s." Jazz mused. "Anyway, you an’ Blue, that’s a kind of love I haven’ really seen with siblin’ sparks before. I was real convinced that he was your own.”

Without facing Jazz, Prowl tapped his stylus gently against the datapad. “Praxians value harmony within family units. Such profane behavior is considered cruel and shameful. That isn’t to say it doesn’t happen, however. There is always a dark spark.”

“Nah, I wouldn’ call it cruel.” Jazz replied with a grin. “We didn’ go aroun’ beatin’ each other or anythin’. We jus’, y’know, teased an’ occasionally whooped each other’s afts.”

“I could not imagine truly harming Bluestreak.” Prowl replied.

Jazz chuckled. “Yeah, an’ I couldn’ imagine Blue tryin’ t’ hurt ya.”

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

To reach Bluestreak’s optic level, Prowl squatted to his knees and asked, _“Did you shoot those mecha, Bluestreak?”_

_“J- Jus’ like how y- you taugh’ me, Prowly.”_ Bluestreak firmly held the rifle in his hands. _“I- I hid in plain sight, s-stayed silent, an’ t- t -t took the s- shot.”_

Prowl’s tense expression faltered, and his hands moved to lightly grip Bluestreak’s shoulders. _“What else did I teach you?”_

_“T- To only shoot if y- you tell me to.”_

_“Or?”_

_“O- Or if I feel t- threatened. O- Only shoot w- when I have t- to. A g- gun isn’t a t- toy, and I- I shouldn’t use it l- like one.”_ Bluestreak seemed sure of himself.

It was nearly impossible for Jazz to tell if Prowl was content or upset by Bluestreak’s response, but regardless he enveloped the youngling into a tense hug, and spoke quietly to him; of what, Jazz couldn’t quite make out, but Prowl’s demeanor was that of tutelage and paternal solicitude that made even Jazz’s own spark warm at its compassionate tenderness. Jazz found himself enthralled. As he spent time alongside this Enforcer, Jazz’s fascination with him grew more and more- and once Jazz was hooked on something, he had a hard time letting go. Prowl had caught his interest in that Concert Hall; the second his optics met the Enforcer’s golden visor, Jazz knew he wouldn’t be leaving without his name _._ He wanted to know who he was, hear his story, feel his sentiment, his _vehemence_...

Abruptly, it had become increasingly obvious that despite not really knowing anything about Prowl, Jazz cared about him… maybe a little _too_ much. It wasn’t the same care he held for regular friends- and it wasn’t the kind he held for someone close like Blaster, either- it was different, something _new_ that he’d never experienced before, and to Jazz, that was the most exciting part. 

Of course, Jazz wasn’t exactly one to put all his spawnpods in one basket; he knew what it was like to lose something of value- something sentimental- and having to deal with the loss, _and_ the fact that you’ll never get it back was glaring you straight in the face. Devoting so much time into something or someone important, putting so much hope on the line, and expecting _nothing_ to go wrong was the dumbest thing a mech can do. Jazz learned early on that things are ever-changing, and it happens quicker than most would think.

So why did he all of a sudden care about Prowl, despite knowing what was to come?

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

"Why did you come here, Jazz?"

Ah. He knew the conversation wouldn't last long, even if Jazz tried to drag it out as much as possible. Prowl was smart, though. He wouldn't be convinced that Jazz was only there to talk. Regardless if he actually _did_ only want to socialize or not. Prowl was a constant skeptic.

It was aggravating, but the truth.

Jazz stepped closer to the Praxian, and quickly he responded, "Jus' wanted t' see if ya were alright, Prowler. You've been cooped up in here all day, e'ry day, an' that's not-" 

"I assure you, I'm fine." Prowl turned to the door's control panel and pushed the " _release_ " button, disengaging the locks. The office door slid open, and Prowl waved his hand towards it. "Now please, I have much more important things-"

Frantic, Jazz reached out to Prowl, and attempted a gentle touch to his shoulder. "Hol' on, wait, I just wanna' ta-!"

Prowl slapped the Polyhexan's dark-plated hand away, and with a deep scowl he hissed, "What do you _want_ , Jazzmeister?"

"I want- I jus' want you to be okay." Jazz retracted his hand, and stepped back, making distance between the two of them.

"What are you on about?" Prowl replied. "I am _fine_."

"Blue an' Smokey don' think so-"

"They are younglings who are fueled by their immature imagination-"

"Ratchet doesn't think so-"

Annoyed, the Praxian sighed. "Obviously, you, Bluestreak, and Smokescreen have brought this ridiculous claim to his attention and he's only giving you what he believes based upon his understanding-"

"And ol' Boss Bot certainly doesn' think so." Jazz paused, watching Prowl's contorted scowl shift slightly at the mention of Optimus.

"...You have turned Prime onto your illusions and falsehoods?"

The Polyhexan shook his head. "Prime came to me about it, about _his_ observation, an’ I only supported his word, Prowl. Ain’t none of us, we ain’t… _I_ ain't imaginin' what I know I see."

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

Through his Comm. Link, one of Prowl’s Enforcers informed him that a countering faction from Iacon had joined the battle and, to the entire state’s relief, they claimed to be allies. They called themselves the **Auto** nomous **B** odies **O** f **T** hrenody **T** owers- **_Autobots_ ** for short. According to their leader, Commander Orion Pax, they had emerged as a dual response to the Primacy and High Council’s “ _reassemblage_ ” of Kaon and the surrounding states, and the Kaonite Rebels’ violent response to it. Each Autobot soldier was once a normal mech, but like-mindedness had brought them together. 

As Jazz, Blaster, and the younglings followed Prowl across the ruins of Praxus to meet the Autobot Commander himself, Jazz contemplated this, and had realized that he and Blaster’s friends hadn’t grouped up much differently. Like-mindedness, similar upbringings, shared opinions on things… mecha tended to associate with those they related with, it was practically instinctual behavior, right? And those that are far too different are seen as a threat.

_Such is the way of love and war._

Finally, Prowl’s pace began to slow once they came upon Praxus’ westernmost gates. There, a very tall Iaconian mech, plated in red and blue and wielding a large dual-bladed battleaxe, loomed over the other mecha around him. Prowl approached, lowering his wings in what Jazz could only assume was an attempt to look less as a threat, and the Commander passed his axe over to his right hand. The Iaconian balanced the axe’s long handle to lean on his shoulder, then extended his left hand to Prowl. 

“ _I_ _am Orion Pax._ ” he had greeted, “ _It_ _is an honor to assist you, Chief Nightprowler.”_ The Iaconian smiled, and released Prowl’s hand. Prowl nodded, but his demur wasn’t quite so well-hidden. Orion seemed to sense Prowl’s unease, and moved to lay his hand upon the Praxian’s shoulder. Softly he reassured, _“Praxus will survive this; we will ensure that it does._ ”

At that, Prowl had returned the grin, and Orion laid down his plans. Jazz noticed the Praxian’s optics had filled with a striking ferocity as he listened- that which his kind is so well known for. 

_Several stellar cycles ago,_ Jazz recalled Orion say, _the mecha that would become the Autobots had met at Iacon’s Threnody Towers district to formally create the faction, and have been operating very discreetly_ \- until now. The Kaonite Rebels had taken a ridiculous leap forward that would change the entire playing field. It wasn’t just civil conflicts anymore, it was war- and regardless of faction, _everyone_ would suffer, as is the way of war. Regardless of who was right and who was wrong, destruction was imminent and losses would be immeasurable. 

Abruptly then, as Blaster nudged him forward to follow Orion, Jazz had realized that he, Prowl, Blaster, and the younglings would be stuck with Orion Pax and his Autobots indefinitely. 

**➳➳➳➳➳➳**

Desolate. Agonizing desolation and morose. Prowl's expression read only as that. The office door had long since closed back, and Prowl sat slouched down, his hands gripping his helm as his wings hung low and loose from his body, and his optics stared blankly, unfocused and turned away from the mech standing in front of him. Jazz reached out once more, his jet-black hand gently touched Prowl's shaking shoulder armor in an attempt to console him. Silently, Prowl seemed to ease into the touch, but his gaze never averted to Jazz.

“You’re alright, s’alright Prowler. Jus’ take as much time as ya need,” Jazz soothed, quietly stroking the aureate trim on the Praxian’s shoulder armor, “...but please, let us know what’s goin’ on with ya.”

Slowly Prowl’s golden optics shifted to the wall behind Jazz, settling on the image hanging there; the image Jazz had observed earlier, of Prowl and Bluestreak long before either of them had grown into their adult frames. The Praxian shuddered, hitched a breath, and forced his optics closed. 

“The very thing, everything I had dedicated my spark to is _gone_ .” Prowl hissed the statement through his teeth, “I… focus very intently on what is given to me. I did not miss the report on Praxus’ fall, I could,” he quivered, “I could not believe what I read. We were so strong, we… Optimus Prime _promised_ succession, he promised we would overtake them. Everyone fought so hard, so bravely, they gave their all for the land they swore to protect-”

Jazz, with subtle and benign movements, attempted to wrap his arms around Prowl, and pull the Praxian into an embrace, yet Prowl resisted; instead, he gripped the Polyhexan’s hands and gently pushed them away. Even while Prowl held his hands, Jazz could feel him convulsing with every choked cry, every hidden sob and wail that he just wouldn’t _let out_.

Prowl buried it all- his pain, his grief, and mourning, all blocked and shoved down into the hole he’s been digging for Primus-knows-how-long while making his own grave within this tenebrous pit he called an office, but Jazz couldn’t do anything about it- not that he felt he was unable to, but because Prowl absolutely _refused_ to allow anyone in to help, and it killed him to know that. 

Did Prowl think he’d be treated differently for it? Did it hurt him knowing that he even felt this way towards Praxus’ destruction?

Maybe it wasn’t so much the _what_ , but rather the _why_ , but Jazz already knew the “why.” Prowl was a mech of pride, image, and honor; showing emotion like this was reprehensible to him, it was a sign of weakness and vulnerability, and such a thing was abhorrent. Prowl hated being seen as useless, so he’d pack it down as much as he can- and that meant submerging himself with endless amounts of work and responsibilities to keep himself distracted from the hard, material truth.

Prowl was hurting- beating and drowning himself to death- that was the truth, and Jazz _hated_ that Prowl’s stubbornness made him feel as if he had no power to stop it.

Slowly swivelling back around to his desk, Prowl dimmed his lamp until it was completely dark, and switched off the datapad he previously read. He tapped his stylus against the desk, and sat quietly for a few moments. 

“Jazzmeister,” Prowl spoke low, his voice cracking slightly, “Your commiseration is appreciated, but your attempts at assisting me will be in vain. You are a fool if you believe your pity is beneficial to my grieving. If you truly want to help, leave me in solus.”

Prowl had opened his office door once more, but Jazz continued to focus on Prowl’s body, lowered over his desk with his hands gripping his helm, trembling. Mirage had written that report, Jazz recalled, during his reconnaissance mission to fallen territories. It had outlined everything from the level of destruction, strategic value, and the likelihood of resettlement. Praxus' death toll was immense, larger than any other territory during the war so far, and the high destruction level was only second to Nova Cronum. 

Before being given a burial, the dead were identified, if possible, and their names were listed on the report. Prowl must have recognized some of them, at least. There were so many.

Very few territories were viable for resettlement to begin with. The devastation of war had ravaged Cybertron's city-states, leaving hardly anything behind, not even to scavenge. There was hope that Praxus would be different, not just for its great strategic value, but also it's prowess and strength; the very qualities that made it stand out among the others. 

However, the Kaonites ensured that Praxus was reduced to little more than dust, a decision that affected both sides. It was by no means an instantaneous and swift victory, it took a while and both sides suffered losses. The Praxians fought- and fought well- but the Kaonites had advantages that the Autobots had yet to succeed. 

Praxus' fall was terrible news to the Autobots, born Praxian or not, but Prowl seemed to be the only one afflicted like this. He had sworn his spark to protect Praxus, and everyone within it. Mirage's report held everything Prowl never wanted on display for all to see.

_Leave me in solus._

It was the last thing Jazz wanted to do. He wanted to be there- even if he couldn't hold Prowl, hug him in a tight embrace and trade comfort through their fields, he just wanted to _be_ there. Jazz wanted to be the one mech that didn't give up on Prowl, he wanted to prove to him that there is so much more here, much more that he just wasn't seeing through his stubborn one-track mind- yes, he was frustrating, but he deserved to be happy like any other mech and- by Primus, Jazz just wanted to _be there!_

But Prowl didn't want him… and that was okay.

No matter what Prowl believed, how he felt, or what he said, Jazz wouldn't give up. He would be there, regardless. 

Jazz can be just as stubborn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Cloud my eyes and tell me what to see  
> I'm falling  
> Every way I turn the same disease  
> But I like it
> 
> Brace myself and hit the wall with ease  
> I'm colliding, and I'm not minding the pain
> 
> I've been down here before  
> All my bones and joints are sore  
> Dig my way out of the wreck again
> 
> I've been down here before  
> Lost myself and so much more  
> Find my way out of the game again
> 
> Open up my head and take it in  
> Just like always  
> Think about the bar and take a swing  
> Loaded trapeze
> 
> What you need the most from me is yours  
> I'll continue to deceive you, my friend
> 
> ...
> 
> You lost what made you you  
> Or maybe I never knew  
> I can't stay here anymore  
> Give it all or you're on your own
> 
> I will leave you"
> 
> ...
> 
> \- "Bones and Joints" by Finger Eleven
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated.

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Bones and Joints by Finger Eleven. 
> 
> As always, feedback is appreciated.


End file.
